


Sir Terry's Dimension

by estella_c



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-23
Updated: 2015-07-23
Packaged: 2018-04-10 00:44:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4370762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/estella_c/pseuds/estella_c
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A celebrated author is transferred into the Good Night and discovers some perks that his knighthood lacked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sir Terry's Dimension

**Author's Note:**

> For Kel

The comic writer regarded the board before him. He seemed to have won the game. He held the queen piece in his right hand. He couldn't remember playing, but he had become used to not remembering things.

It was a start seeing his friendly opponent, an extremely thin gent in black, so extremely thin that...well, there he was. “You're Death,” the writer exclaimed. “ _My_ Death.”

“YES INDEED.” The chap did seem actually friendly, though that is not often how a skull's grin is interpreted. “BIT OF A PUN THERE. YOUR TOUCH SURVIVES.”

“Then it has happened. Well. Better I think than hanging about raging against. Thomas was a bloody fool anyhow. Died of drink when he might have been making use of those fabulous brain cells.” The writer didn't sound comical.

“OH,” said the chummy bony person, “YOU MUST THINK OF IT AS A PROMOTION.”

“Had one. Got knighted. Didn't come with any guarantees.”

“BUT NOW, YOU SEE, YOU'VE ENTERED ANOTHER DIMENSION, A SPECIAL ONE RESERVED FOR CREATORS LIKE YOURSELF. A LITERARY DIMENSION.”

“What a treat.” The writer's eyes narrowed. “I'm an atheist, you know.”

“WE DO. WE GET ALL SORTS.”

“I mean, no messing about, now. I'm not paying homage or acknowledging...” He stopped, bemused. “This is a very odd conversation. By which I mean the talking.”

“YOU WILL BE DOING A LOT OF CONVERSING IN FUTURE. YOU'LL BE IN DEMAND. FANCY A DRINK?”

“I once said I liked people to treat me to banana daiquiris.” He chuckled. “It was just a funny line. Well, that's nice.” It was a pretty pale yellow with a plastic parrot stuck in. “Don't they generally come with umbrellas.”

“GET A GRIP, MAN. YOU'RE BRITISH. YOU'VE HAD YOUR FILL OF UMBRELLAS AND YOU'D PROBABLY RATHER A STOUT. BUT WISHES HAVE CONSEEQUENCES HERE. AS DO SUB-CREATIONS.”

“That's a familiar term. Tolkien--of course.” The comic writer thought it was time to take a good look round. It was all black and white and stony and gothic and familiar. Except: a kitten was jumping onto the gameboard and scattering the pieces. He seemed to be after the parrot.

“Here's a small cat.”

“YOU GAVE ME ONE. CAN'T REMEMBER. IT HAD SOMETHING TO DO WITH MY GRANDDAUGHTER SUSAN. ACCEPTING HER HUMAN SIDE OR REALLY SHE ACCEPTING HER SUPERNATURAL SIDE. A BORROW OF THE SPOCK DILEMMA. YOU WRITERS ARE SHAMELESS, THOUGH THE BEST OF YOU CAN BE FORGIVEN.”

“I like cats. By human standards, of course, they're all bastards. Are you happy with this little monster? I did inflict him on you.” There were chess pieces all over the mossy cobblestones, and Nameless was trying to claw up a square on the board, which was an elegant marble inlay.

“CERTAINLY, AS YOU KNEW I WOULD BE. YOU MUST UNDERSTAND THAT I CAN FURNISH FEW CONVERSATIONAL SURPRISES. I AM YOURS. YOUR CREATION.”

The writer rose and took a turn about the courtyard of Death's country cottage. It had been black/white and arid, he thought, but it was greening and becoming more country-cottagy. It looked English, and there was no mistaking England in any dimension. “Are the others here?”

“OF COURSE.”

“Oh, God. Do they want to see me? Do they like me? Do they want to kill me?”

“THEY'RE A JOLLY CREW, AND AVAILABLE FOR CHAT AT ANY TIME. I KNOW FOR A FACT THAT NANNY OGG WOULD ENJOY A KNEES UP. NOT TOO SURE ABOUT THE UNSEEN FACULTY. THEY VALUE THEIR DIGNITY, BUT CAN SURELY BE HAD FOR A ROAST OF BEEF AND CHESHIRE PUD. HONESTLY, YOU NEEDN'T WORRY ABOUT ANY OF THEM. THEY'RE YOUR TENANTS, IF YOU CATCH MY DRIFT. THEY OWE YOU THEIR LIVES.”

“But I'm dead. And they're— _fictional_.”

“AS A CREATOR, YOU HAVE GIVEN THEM LIFE.” Death sipped his own drink, which might have been a bloody Mary. The writer didn't want to ask. Death was looking quite healthy. Was he fleshier? He couldn't understand how. He'd never written bloody science fiction.

“You keep calling me that. I only wrote books. For fun and profit. I have no delusions of grandeur.”

“NOR SHOULD YOU. YOU ARE, LIKE ALL OUR ARTISTIC INHABITANTS, 'SUB-CREATORS.' DURING YOUR LIFE-SPAN, YOU COULDN'T HAVE PUT TOGETHER A KITTEN LIKE THIS ONE.” Nameless, startled at their duel attention, collapsed and tucked his paws under. Large mammals. Gotta watch.

“No, no, of course, I just did stories. I imagined all sorts of things. I know I'll miss that. I already had started to miss that.” He tossed back his drink and rose to look around. “I'd love to continue the, um, sub-creation thing. I liked working. Are there computers? Is there—for the love of God—a market?!”

“I ASSUME YOU MEAN WILL ANYONE WANT TO READ YOU. OF COURSE. YOU ARE SURROUNDED BY FELLOW WRITERS AND OTHER FELLOW HUMANS. AS WELL AS THE INDIVIDUALS YOU INVENTED WHO ALWAYS YEARN FOR SCANDAL AND SIMPLE GOSSIP. TO WHOM ELSE WOULD THEY TURN?”

It was a glorious day of summery sun and richly green greenery. Death's dominion with a perfect June makeover. There was a river down at the edge of a bank, curled gently to accommodate boats. Which there were, the comic writer thought.

“I say,” he murmured. “Could that be Carroll?” It was a rowboat with an academic gentleman and a young, blonde girl. “Is he—telling her the story?”

“THEY'VE BEEN HERE A GOOD TIME. DOUBTLESS ANOTHER TALE. THERE'S QUITE A COLONY OF LITERARY FOLK NEARBYE, ENJOYING THEMSELVES IN A MUTUALLY AGREED-UPON VENUE. WHEN IT COMES TO IT, WHATEVER VICIOUS SATIRES OR CRIMINAL PUZZLES OR SOCIETAL PONDERINGS A WRITER GETS UP TO, THERE'S NO PLACE AFTER WORK LIKE A PLEASANT GARDEN WITH ACCESS TO ALCOHOL. MY, YOU WORD-WRANGLERS CAN KNOCK IT BACK!” Death knocked his own drink back, winking jovially to obviate any hint of criticism. The comic writer was caught in the conundrum of wondering how a skull could wink. Good God, this character was beginning to look like the Hogfather. Oops. Back to the _oeuvre._

“Well, if one _must_ accept an afterlife, I'll admit that this looks okay. Tell me more about the local inhabitants.”

“THEY ARE AS VARIED AS YOU PERSONALLY WISH. MR. SHAW MEETS FREQUENTLY WITH MS. NESBIT IN THE GAZEBO TO THE SOUTH. THEY HAVE A HISTORY. SCOTT AND HEMINGWAY ARE STILL DISCUSSING SEX AND WEALTH AND PENIS LENGTH. MR. THOMAS AND MR. DONNE HAVE AN OCCASIONAL SET-TO, BUT OF COURSE FIERY DYLAN HAS LOST SOME OF HIS FIRE NOW THAT HE HAS COME GENTLE INTO—YOU KNOW. YOU WERE A FANTASIST. ARE, I BEG YOUR PARDON. SO YOU HAVE A WHOLE CADRE OF YOUR PERSUASION TO ENCOUNTER. SOME, ALAS, THE WORLD HAS FORGOTTEN. BY 'WORLD' I REFER TO THE PRE-DEATH DIMENSION.”

“I have a high opinion of a chap named Mervyn Peake. Probably started to write because they called him Mervyn. He died sickly and too young to see the full flower of his reputation. What a following he's developed, and such an influence! Even on me. Not even to _try_ to imitate him. It would be fun to explain about television.

And, of course, Shakespeare. But there must be a waiting list there.”

“MASTER SHAKESPEARE IS ADMIRED AND ENTOURAGE-HEAVY, BUT IT HASN'T BEEN EASY FOR THE CELEBRATED GENTLEMAN. SOME CALL HIM 'MY LORD' AND SOME CALL HIM 'FRANCIS.' THERE ARE ARGUMENTS. HE PREFERS BILL.”

“Good. Approachable, likely. I'm anxious to discover what he thinks of my _Wyrd Sisters_ , which borrowed a little from _Hamlet_ and much more from _Macbeth._ ” The writer suddenly did seem anxious. “Oh God, what I did with the witches...”

Death had picked up the kitten and tucked it into his sleeve, where it had found a skeletal rat and was sniffing it in forgivable curiosity. He stood then, doing a dramatic swirl with his robe. Even in a flower-furnished English garden he commanded authority, as Dame Agatha had been gratified to see.

“I'm finished with you,” he announced, neither kindly nor rudely. “You deserved an appropriate introduction but, by your leave, I've become SO exhausted with this huge typeface. With your resilient imagination you can be safely abandoned. There are always more expiring to greet and calm. Those who've read you, at least. They discover the afterlife they've invented, which simplifies things for me. I owe you a debt there.”

“Perhaps you've paid it already,” said the writer, sensing he's being dismissed. “Coming when you did.”

“Don't be maudlin. Look, it's Mr. White coming up the path with Wart. He's been looking forward to discussing King Arthur with you. They've been trying to track His Majesty, but he seems to have another dimensional address. I'll leave you to it. Refreshments imaginatively furnished. You writers have such fun!”

Suddenly alone, though about to be approached, the comic writer considered his fate. “It's obviously not heaven,” he thought, “but I'd be mad not to take advantage.” He went to meet his guests, missing entirely the large leaf with the large caterpillar. The caterpillar was puffing on a bong, and took no offense.


End file.
